


The Shallows

by Criminally_Capricious



Category: The Lampies (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fiachra isn't in this but he's the cause, Graphic Description of Corpses, Haunting, Horror Elements, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Supernatural Elements, because he's a little fae bastard, the lighthouse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 01:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17274221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Criminally_Capricious/pseuds/Criminally_Capricious
Summary: A short section I wrote for an AU where the crew of HO32 are Humans who man a Lighthouse.Captain Warren Jones applied for this position because it was far, far away from his family and their undeserved sympathy. Nothing he could have done differently, they said.So everyone said.It didn't mean that he wasn't responsible for what had happened.Fiachra, the fae entity capable of creating horrifying illusions currently co-inhabiting Warren's body, knows an opportunity for some fun when he sees it.





	The Shallows

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Here's this.  
> I should be writing my Genre Theory essay but i really don't want to do that, so here instead is Fiachra being a bastard and making Warren think the ghosts of his crewmen are crawling out of the sea for revenge.

He first saw them by the water.

It was wet and blustery that day and the tide was just coming in; waves broke over the rocks in the shallows and bubbling white foam rushed up the stony beach, brushing the very bottom step of the stairs that lead up to the lighthouse.  
From the window of the Watch Room, just below the lantern, Warren B. Jones was staring out at the grey weather. His tea was cooling slowly, forgotten on the desk as his mind drifted away from his morning report. The sun had risen almost an hour ago but the light struggled to break through the cloud cover, leaving most of the landscape in indistinct darkness which was lit only briefly by the lamplight – above him, the lamp hummed as it made its rotations. Above the sound, he could barely hear the footsteps of Burnout and Spotlight in the lantern room, preparing for Switch Off.

As the beam swept around again, his absent gaze followed its path as far as he could see through the window. The light passed over the frothing shallows for a moment, then lit up the beach through the rain before it quickly passed around the other side of the tower and out of his sight, returning the world outside to its grim, grey smudge. But in the moment of illumination, he’d caught sight of something on the beach. A pile of driftwood maybe, washed up on the rocky shore?

He watched, waiting for the next beam to pass by. He remembered his tea, and hoped it wasn’t too cold to enjoy as he picked up the mug. It was still warm in his hands, and the smell of English rose and strawberry was a welcome comfort on such a bleak day. The next beam came around only a few seconds later, and he paused with the mug raised halfway to his lips.

In the moments the beach was lit, he saw the shine of the wet stones and the dark tangles of seaweed strewn about it’s length – and several strange, lumpy heaps, lying together in a cluster just out of the water’s steadily creeping reach.  It didn’t look like driftwood, he thought as the light vanished again. Could it be people, standing down at the beach? Or perhaps some piles of rubbish dumped elsewhere had washed up to the shore?

Setting his tea back down onto the desk, he took a moment to locate the small set of binoculars that he knew Spotlight kept in one of the desk drawers. He wanted a better look, just in case it _was_ some group of idiots mucking about by the water’s edge. High-tide was almost upon them, and if there was anyone down there, they would soon be in real trouble. Better to be safe than sorry.

The binoculars were in the second drawer down on the right, beside a pocket book of astonomy and a crumpled checklist. He adjusted the lenses as he waited for the next beam to light up the beach again, and found himself...apprehensive, for a reason he couldn’t explain. Raising the binoculars, he trained his sight on the gloomy beach and told himself to stop getting worked up about nothing. It was probably just driftwood, after all. He ignored the dampness of his palms - it was just driftwood. No one was in danger.

When the beach lit up for a third time, however, he felt like something had gripped his heart in its fist and squeezed. It only took a few moments for the lantern’s beam to sweep over the shore and then recede, but in those few moments, he had recognised what lay on the beach far below his window with a cold horror that crept up his throat with each hammering heartbeat.  
  
Bloated and grotesque, clothed in what was left of their tattered uniforms, three corpses lay sprawled on the stones, their swollen tongues blackened and empty sockets weeping salt water as they stared back through the lenses of the binoculars from so far, far below – battered by the encroaching tide, they seemed to be twitching and writhing in the shallows, their jaws loose and mouths gaping wide with agony.

Then the light was gone, and the sound of the lantern’s humming died abruptly as the mechanism was switched off. The silence was heavy.

The binoculars slipped from Warrens fingers and hit the floor with a clatter. He remained frozen in rigor, eyes as wide as he could open them and unable to tear themselves away from the window where he knew the beach was, through the rain and the gloom. He could feel the eyeless stare on him, returning his gaze, and his hands began to tremble – then he was shaking violently, gasping for each breath as he broke his horrified paralysis and stumbled back away from the glass.  
He wanted to shout, to scream – Burnout and Spotlight were just upstairs – but his throat had constricted so that he could only make pathetic, sobbing whimpers.

In the haze outside, he imagined the corpses crawling up the beach, scrabbling at the stones with their black fingernails. In the whistling of the wind outisde the tower he could almost hear his name, whispered gurgling and wet from rotted lips.  
  
_“Jones…Captain Jones...”_  
  
He squeezed his stinging eyes shut and turned his face away from the window, but even with his hands over his ears he could hear the voices, louder now, and see the empty sockets staring back at him from behind his eyelids.   
  
“ _Captain Jones…”_  
  
“Please” he begged, “please leave me alone - you can’t be here, you can’t, you can't be -”  


_“WARREN!”_

  
He jerked up with fright at the shout in his ear, and was startled to find Burnout crouching in front of him where he was curled into the wall. His large hand was on Warren’s shoulder, and his weathered face was filled with warm concern.  


 


End file.
